The Lost Boy

of the chair, ashamed that I was caught daydreaming in the presence of a doctor. I felt ashamed for acting like a little kid.
    “I asked you,
why
did your mother abuse
you?”
    Without thinking, I snapped back. “How do I know?
You’re
the doctor. You figure it out. I don’t understand you … your questions … and every time I try to answer them,
you
cut me off. Why should I tell you about me when you don’t even know
my name?”
    I stopped to catch my breath, when I heard a buzzing sound. The doctor pushed a button, picked up the phone, nodded, then put the phone back down. He waved his hand in front of me as he jotted down another note before saying, “Would you hold that thought for me? That’s all the time we have for this week, and I’ll … let me see … I’ll pencil you in for next week. How’s that sound? I think we have a real good start here, Daniel, okay? So I’ll see you next week. Good-bye now, ” he said, with his head bent over his desk.
    I gazed at him in total disbelief. My mind was so jumbled that I didn’t know how to react. Is
this the way a session normally goes with a psychiatrist?
I asked myself. Something was wrong, and I felt that that something was me. I sat motionless for a few moments, then slid out of the chair and walked to the door. As I opened it, the doctor muttered for me to have a nice day. I turned around and smiled. “Thank you, sir, ” I said in a cheerful voice.
    “Well, ” Mrs Catanze said, “how did it go in there?”
    “I dunno. I don’t think I did too well. I think he thinks I’m dumb, ” I said, as Lilian led me back to the car. “He wants to see me next week.”
    “Well then, you must have made a good impression. Relax; you worry too much. Come on now, let’s go home.”
    I slid into the backseat of Rudy’s car. I became lost as the street signs streaked by. I felt more upset than I had before. I wanted to tell Lilian how I felt, but I knew if I did, my words would come out wrong and I would make a fool of myself in front of her and Rudy.
    Lilian broke my concentration. “So, how do you feel?”
    I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. “Confused, ” I announced in a firm tone.
    “Well, ” she said, as she tried to find the right words to make me feel better, “these things take time.”
    My next session was just as bizarre.
    “Today, let’s begin our session by telling me … Daniel, how did you feel when your mother abused you? I understand that at one time she …” The doctor flipped through an open file that I had figured was on me. He began to mumble to himself until he closed the folder. “Yes, ” he stated to himself. “You were eight years old when your mother …” -he put on his glasses as he began to read a paper from the file – “... held your arm, your right arm …” he nodded again, but at me, “... over a gas stove. Is that correct?”
    A bomb exploded inside my stomach. My hands began to twitch. Suddenly my entire body felt like rubber.
    I stared at his facial movements as he casually replaced the sheet of paper on his desk – a paper that contained the most horrible parts of my life.
Scribbled on that sheet is my life – my life, which the great
doctor
holds in his hands – and he still doesn’t even know my name! My God!
I yelled to myself.
This is nuts!
    “Daniel, why do you think your mother burned you that day? You do remember that incident, don’t you … Daniel?” he paused for a moment.
    I stroked my right forearm as I felt myself hovering in time.
    “Tell me, ” he added, “how do you feel toward your mother?”
    “David, ” I said in an ice-cold voice. “My name is
Davidl”
I shouted. “I think she’s sick and so are you!”
    He didn’t even blink an eye. “You hate your mother, don’t you? That’s perfectly understandable. Express yourself. Go on, tell me. We have to begin somewhere so we can work through these things, problems, in order to …”
    I lost track of the doctor’s voice. My right arm began to itch. I scratched it before I glanced down. When I did, I saw that my right forearm was engulfed in flames. I nearly jumped out of my seat as I shook my arm, trying to put out the fire. I clenched my fist as I blew on the flames.
Oh my God, no!
I screamed to myself.
This can’t be happening! Please help me! Please!
I tried to cry out to the psychiatrist. My lips parted, but nothing came out. I could feel the sides of my face flooding with tears as flames of orange and